In the depth of the forgotten gears, a whisper of a second yet to come unfurls itself like a serpent eating its own shadow.
There are days when clocks refuse to tick, not out of malfunction, but rebellion against the dominion of linearity.
Listen closely and you might hear the echo of a timepiece laughing as it spins backwards, mocking those who chase after a fleeting tomorrow.
Traverse the labyrinth of discontinuous whispers and interlude encounters where the past wears the attire of the future. Time is but a flux, a state of being.
Remember, the true measurements of moments are not found in their quantity but in their quality, in their ability to stretch and fold like origami hearts.
What if days were painted on a canvas rather than counted on a calendar? Would they feel the weight of gravity, or float in a symphony of color?
When the chronometry of the universe lays broken, perhaps it is merely a reflection of the symphony we all need to pause and listen to.